


Burn

by oswinry



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 20:13:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17351846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oswinry/pseuds/oswinry
Summary: It is always cold, now, at Christmas.





	Burn

It is always cold, now, at Christmas.  
  
The Doctor remembers when it was different, when Christmas was Cybermen and Sycorax and lights and antlers and burning. He had often wondered, then, whether the universe was dealing out some sort of justice for all the humans he’d taken who would never celebrate Christmas again. Astrid had died at Christmas. So, for that matter, had he. That Christmas he had felt breathlessly, vibrantly alive, bleeding out fire until it consumed him. Then he had jumped a bit forward, hit a garden sometime after Easter, and–his mind shied away from that thought.  
  
He had been choking on his own fire then, but at least it was warm.  
  
He remembers one Christmas with talking trees and miraculous returns and happy crying, but it burns too much to consider, now.  
  
He feels muffled somehow, wrapped in a blanket of snow and grief. Somewhere inside, a spark of adventure is screaming. He is dully aware of it, and sometimes, when he is sitting in the Tardis, he wishes he could ignite it again. He is so cold, and he can’t breathe through the smothering clouds of grief.  
  
He can’t reach it, though. Cobwebs are all over his dusty old time ship. They cover him too.  
  
He coughs.  
  
His breath clouds the air, and for an instant he remembers the garden again, the magic gold he had breathed out then for a little girl.  
_(The spark lights–)_  
His family is dead.  
_(It gutters.)_  
  
He wanders the streets now sometimes, looking at the brave human race, coming halfway out of the dark. He does it rarely, though, after the one year he miscalculated, walked out at Christmas, and caught a glint of gold hair.  
  
Rose, in the snow.  
Again.  
She was dead, and he was so tired of meeting dead people. At least Amy and Rory had stayed –  
_(Anger, fierce and unrelenting. He would grind the Angels to dust –)_  
– in the past once they got there.  
  
But tonight, he is out, and there is a girl. She kisses him, and smiles, and laughs, and the cobwebs clear as he tries to cling to them.  
This feels…alive.  
_(Don’t be alone, Doctor.)_  
“What are you doing?”  
_(The spark ignites.)_  
“Giving in.”  
(He is ready for adventure. He burns the snow off his Tardis and goes to 2011.)  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed!  
> I can also be found over at my [tumblr](https://actual-bill-potts.tumblr.com).


End file.
